


Time and Time Again

by earthmylikeness



Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 07:37:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16593632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthmylikeness/pseuds/earthmylikeness
Summary: Ander took a step, eyes roaming around the room somewhere between the coffee and the dried dates. “You were right, people don’t die of broken hearts.” His regard landed steadily then, on Omar. “But I’d rather spare myself from it.”Five times Ander came to see Omar, and one time Omar went to him.





	Time and Time Again

**Author's Note:**

> Begins right after Omar and Ander’s final scene in S1.

 

* * *

 

Omar couldn’t stop looking behind him, to see Ander follow through the back hallway of his home, into the stockroom. His heart felt light, even though he knew it shouldn’t—butterflies again, needles in his fingers.

A girl had died and all of their hands were stained.

“I am sorry, Ander. How is your friend? Are you alright?”

“I quit tennis.”

Omar was stunned into stillness. He turned, shoulders dropping, eyes searching Ander’s face for a sign of irony. He was clear-eyed, terrified, hard to look at.

Ander hated tennis, or so he’d told Omar occasionally. Omar had stopped haranguing him about quitting after that first time, as he knew firsthand what it meant to disappoint your father. To be something less than what he’d expected, what he’d wanted.

Omar instead had always diverted the subject: ‘ _fuck tennis, chico, how’s the la liga?’_ And ‘ _so how short are these tennis shorts, exactly?’_ And ‘ _if your back hurts we can just kiss. We can just kiss.’_

Ander never looked bitter. Was never self-deprecating, never depressed—but Omar knew it was conditional. Ander thought he didn’t deserve to be those things when Omar was around, thought Omar had it worse. It was ridiculous, as unhappiness didn’t work that way.

Omar never liked the way Ander looked after practices, as much as he acted like it wasn't that bad. He looked unsure, but better now, like a weight had been lifted.

“Good,” Omar said, voice rough. The door swung shut behind Ander, and Omar flinched. He knew he didn’t deserve this: this giddiness, this falling stomach. The warmth in the air between two bodies.

Omar wanted to say more. To say he was glad Ander told his father. That he was happy to see him, wanted to kiss him; none of it would come out. His tongue was wooden, a dreaded chill down his spine as he wondered—what if he was ruining Ander?

A poor muslim boy, corrupt, repressed by his parents and his own God, caged in his home—Ander had no business being here. Omar had tried to tell him.

Ander took a step, eyes roaming around the room somewhere between the coffee and the dried dates. “You were right, people don’t die of broken hearts.” His regard landed steadily then, on Omar. “But I’d rather spare myself from it.”

Omar huffed a laugh, “What, can’t live without me?”

Ander smiled a bit, fond. He glanced at his watch, glittering bright and out of place in the ragged room, like him. “Eight minutes. Come here,” he said, taking Omar’s trembling hand, and Omar went.

It passed like a breath, Ander leaving as quick as he came, his father’s return like a bucketful of water. Omar’s face burning bright as he busied himself with the packs of coins he was handed, as Nadia eyed him coyly from her chair.

He could feel the hard knobs of Ander’s fingers, still, imprinted on his ribs. Ander’s low timbre ringing in his ear, the hard cut of his stomach falling in and out under his hands- Ander kissed him always like they had hours, days—not minutes—taking his time with him, making an impression. As if trying to convince Omar of something.

His father snapped at him, catching him slack-jawed and staring meaninglessly at the produce, touching his lips idly.

That final kiss like a reminder— _this is not all we have, we will have more_ —short and open-mouthed with furrowed brows.

“I love you,” he’d told him, like it cost him nothing. Like it took everything.

\- - - - -

Omar hadn’t expected it the next day- 

Not one minute after his father left for the bank, Ander wandered into the store like he was lost. He pulled off his sunglasses and squinted at Omar before grinning—and Omar went colorblind for everything else for a concussed moment. It didn’t bode well for his internment.

“Are you going to come every day?”

Ander blew out a breath in false hurt, leaning an arm on the desk and in, and in—glancing at the door then up at him from just below Omar’s chin. His shirt was two buttons loose, paved deep down his throat. Surrender. “Would you hate that?”

Omar tsked, flustered, “Idiot, you know I wouldn’t, but we’ll get caught.” Ander ignored him and took Omar’s hand, holding loosely onto the bar in a last line of resistance, and dragged him around to the exit. “I’ve told you I can’t tell my father.”

Omar had confessed at the farewell party—his cowardice, his failure to tell his family the truth about himself. How he’d told them ‘ _no_ ’ when he was asked if he loved boys, if he loved a boy, and how it nearly maimed him.

Ander had held his head in his calloused hands, kissed him blind, told him it was alright—even though it decidedly was not.

Ander lost a little of his light, but was quick to hide it in an eye-roll, “I know, I just wanted to see you. To vent. Come,” and pulled him into the hallway again. He struggled a bit with the stuck door to the stockroom, before letting Omar shove it in with his shoulder. “Oof, my hero.”

“Shut up,” Omar said and spun Ander around before licking into his mouth, his hands pulling at his waist, his belt, climbing beneath his shirt. He pushed them against the door to stick it closed, “I am only afraid for you.”

“I know,” Ander held his jaw carefully, pinching his earlobe, swallowing his breaths like they were priceless. “I know.” And then for minutes they didn’t talk.

“Guzmán hasn’t been well,” Ander said after, leaned up against the door, playing with Omar’s ring finger, the crooked pinky. “He’s been worrying me. Worrying everyone.” He slipped his arms around Omar’s neck, linked them—looked at him as if for guidance, and Omar was the last person that could give anything like that.

“You’ll watch out for him,” Omar said, nodding his chin and bumping Ander’s nose, keeping his voice down even though only Ander could hear him.

Omar had never been a good son, never a great brother. Kept secrets from his friends, expected the worst from his dates. But when it came to Ander, for some reason, he did feel like an expert. A natural at whatever this was.

Ander ducked his head, and Omar hated it. Wanted to look at him more. “I am worried he will start using,” he said, glancing at the far corner of the room, then up, rubbing Omar’s head idly. “Or worse,” He expelled a ragged breath, a puff of warmth on Omar’s forehead.

“Like you, cabrón?” Omar said, nudging his shoulder, make him focus.

Ander smirked, dark, “Yeah, like me. His real parents… they,” his eyes went unseeing, lip worried to dark pink, distracting. “And now his sister—it’s like a pattern.”

A thread of tragedy followed the golden boy of Las Encinas, and his untouchable, prestigious family in the hills. Omar saw the omen for what it was—if even the wealthiest were not immune to devastation, what could be done for the rest of them?

His best friend’s own brother, one of their only lines of rebellion against the impeding, uncaring upper class in their crowded town, was now in jail for murder of one of its prized children. Safety for the defenseless was becoming increasingly out of the question.

“Guzmán did all he could to keep you safe,” Omar reminded him. “Threatened me and all,” he shrugged, and received Ander’s apologetic headbutt on his shoulder. “You should return the favor.”

Ander nodded—he looked childish in the dim light, broodish and innocent. Omar could look at him for hours, like some painting in a museum; the ones with the cherubs and saints and white lambs. Omar touched Ander’s earring, pulled his chin in to peck his mouth, seeking something like absolution.

Ander responded, leaning in, and Omar stopped while he still could, pulling off with a bite on his lip. Ruffled his hair until it stood up, puckish. Ander didn’t let him off for that, manhandled him around, back to front, ran his hands along his torso until Omar lost breath, laughing in his ear.

Omar had a song stuck in his head, by an African singer that he didn’t remember—about waiting and traveling and a timeless, agape love—when his father returned from the bank. He jumped half a foot when the door dinged open, nearly dropping the label gun in his hand.

His father noticed the fumble and eyed him piercingly, and Omar shrunk in a little—coward—afraid that he would smell Ander on him like perfume.

“Alright?” his father prompted, and Omar thought harshly: _you don’t give a shit._

“Yes sir,” he said.

\- - - - -

Omar’s leg started shaking at around fifteen to two like clockwork. His hands were restless at the desk, playing haplessly with an elastic band, wishing for his phone with his whole heart.

He felt all of eight again, told to keep quiet. To be calmer, less disruptive, to keep his head down. All Omar wanted back then was to learn how to ride a bike and sneak into horror movies. Nothing as grand as having ten minutes of freedom per day.

“Quit shaking,” his father said, pointing, before leaving the store later than usual. And—just like a spell—Omar stilled.

He breathed in deep, pressed his eyelids with the heel of his hands, red and burring vision. His jail didn’t feel so stifling these days; it must not be so bad if it no longer killed him to keep the secret. It had become vital to keep it so, as it was more than just the truth.

When he blinked open, Ander was leaned against the window outside, finishing his joint.

Omar watched Ander’s stark profile, biting his lip. He remembered that first time; seeing this boy at the top of the bridge, in his well-trimmed uniform, looking clueless as the day is long. Omar had wanted to drag him down, down to his level—have him see what happened if the pristine schoolboy from the suburbs messed around with someone like Omar. Omar had believed he knew how to play that game, corrupting someone at an arm’s distance. Oh, how it had backfired.

Ander had infected him like the latest addiction, Omar wasted away on his easy smiles and eager mouth. Ander’s eyes and careful hands on his body like the greatest kind of acceptance—the only kind Omar wanted to know.

Omar figured it was a kind of dependency, the last thing he needed. The dealing, the hook-ups—they were all so that he could have no ties, nothing keeping him still. Omar had intended to float, care only enough to get by. Never get too attached.

But Ander told him he wanted to see him, to be with him—wearing a three-piece suit and a bow-tie—and the vision of it fucked Omar up, changed him fundamentally. Omar became a creature who believed every word he was told. Became someone who cared about where his soul ended up at the end of the night, who lived with his phone fused to his skin. Someone who went to gay bars and discos and showed up at Ander’s three-storey house unannounced, slept in his bed through dinner.

They were both equal in the crime. Ander was now the first thing he thought of when he woke up, and the last thing before he slept—and Ander had spent almost every day of his summer so far in a musty stockroom at a bodega thirty minutes from where he lived. They would both pay for this, and Omar was giddy with it.

Ander walked in, pausing as the bell rang then stilled. He turned to Omar, who was staring at him. The afternoon shimmered, its light landing right at Ander’s feet.

“Hey,” he said.

Omar took in the sight for a second: Ander stood awkward in the middle of their store with loose fists—cut shoulders under a black polo, hair auburn and shining, haloed by dust.

Omar thought about telling Ander that he was being arranged another marriage, and how Nadia would not be able to stop it this time. He thought about how that would go. Omar knew that it didn’t matter; he would have nothing useful to say today either, and Ander would be wounded by it, needlessly.

Ander was here and the moment was theirs.

“Hey,” Omar replied, “Come.”

\- - - - -

Ander came in on the same ring as his father’s departure one day, dripping, towel around his neck, halfway to hard already.

Omar watched the water hit the uneven floor like rain, filling the cracks. Looked up to see Ander in a red sleeveless, backlit by the day. He looked like a magazine cover.

“Dios, where you been,” Omar began, eyebrows hitting the ceiling, before being pressed gently into the stacks by a wide, heated hand on his stomach, dropping it miles underground.

“The beach. I was thinking about you.” Ander crowded him against the candy bars, damp fingers curling around his wrist. He smiled with half his mouth and Omar could live off it for weeks, years. “About your eyes.”

“My father will be back soon. The bank is empty on Sundays.” He could feel Ander against his leg, his hot breath against his throat. Sand rolled down his shirt smelling of salt, fell deep into Omar’s shoes to line its edges.

“I couldn’t breathe,” Ander said, sun-heated and made honest by desperation. His breaths rang like bells in his ears and Omar knew, on some sane level, that if they tried to get off right now, they would get caught. Someone would come in, would look down the aisles; it was hard to think about that through the thick haze of Ander filling his tunnel-vision, his blown-out eyes- “I wanted to see you.”

Omar shook his head, nose brushing against Ander’s seeking mouth. “You’re seeing me,” he said, hands calming against Ander’s face. Ander was a force of nature like this, waves crashing onto passive rocks, sanding them down smooth and pliable. “I’m right here, ah-“

Ander’s thumb hooked around Omar’s zipper, palm grazing along the inside of where his leg met hip. Ander sucked in a breath at the contact, moving always as if it was a privilege to be touching Omar. Licking his lips as he always did before kissing him—like he wanted it to be good, as easy as can be.

Omar couldn’t make it easy, dropping his forehead onto Ander’s chest, breathing out like he was dying as Ander wound him up like a toy. “Joder, Ander,” he grabbed Ander’s pulsing wrist with all he had, pushing against it once hypocritically, free-falling. He could feel Ander’s smile on the side of his head, wet and vaguely pleading.

“We can’t, not here,” Omar gasped a little, and before he could protest further, Ander was nodding, mouthing against his temple.

“I know, just. I,” Ander held his breath, pushing four fingers briefly down the front of Omar’s jeans, cool and quick. “I want to blow you. Perfectly.” And it made no sense but it had the effect—Omar pushing him full-strength back against the other side of the stacks, taking a drag of Ander’s surprised, debauched look before kissing him hard, hands cradling his curled locks.

It was the adrenaline, probably—of being caught, of getting away with it—that spurred Omar on, pinning Ander against the shelves with his whole body, chasing the hard heat, pushing his leg between Ander’s, making him keen.

Ander kissed him back, eyes dark slits as he panted around Omar’s lips, his cheek, the cut of skin where his throat fell into his shoulder. Omar put his hands on the shelf edge on either side of Ander’s head, slid his slick brow on the cool metal, getting himself under control.

Omar wanted to blow Ander right now and that was _definitely_ not the point. It felt like the only point, Ander pressed warm and silk-smooth between him and the physical world, smelling like the sea-

“Wait for me,” Ander rasped in his ear, an impossible request.

Then he was gone, like it was a daydream, taking the heat and all of the air with him. Omar opened his eyes and all of his remaining senses returned: the sun a whip against his skin, the whoosh of the air conditioning, the ring of the door bell like a siren—once, then twice. His father opening the register, calling out his name. Telling him the store is unattended, where is that boy.

Omar said nothing, couldn’t look at another person for as long as he lived.

He sat, shaking for an hour after. The seawater still moving down his skin, dampening his shirt, seeping in. He fell his head on his fist rooted to the table, trying to calm his breathing, riled up with nowhere to go.

\- - - - -

Ander walked in one afternoon while his father was in the store, proceeding to give Omar a heart-attack. He looked shrunken in, drawn. He was wearing one of his tennis shirts, and it had dirt on it, the collar tilted out of shape. “Buenas,” he said, and his father hummed a reply.

Omar glanced over to make sure Ander wasn’t recognized before widening his eyes. When Ander stopped browsing idly in the aisles and turned to him, he could see his face had marks, a reddening bruise high on his cheekbone. Omar lost breath, gut-punched,

“Ande-,” He got out before choking it back, his father peering over at him, confused. Ander shook his head minutely, began to peruse extra intently. What the fuck. Omar’s hand began to tap on the table, impatient. He wanted to be over there.

Ander brought over a bag of walnuts, took also a stick of gum. From up close it looked worse, a tear just below his eye—too close—a reddening rip on his mouth. Omar’s ears ringing, the image of Ander laying bloodied in the back of an alley overlaying in his vision.

Omar had told him then, _“I love you,”_ and _“don’t get yourself killed.”_ And Ander had promised, like an idiot. Like a liar, grinning with blood on his teeth, asking for a kiss. Omar had planned to hold that against him for as long as it took. But here Ander fucking was, picking fights in his neighborhood like he wanted his wrist broken again, or worse. Omar could throttle him.

Ander cleared his throat, raised his brows like, _‘come on,’_ and Omar jumped back into routine.

“Four fifty, please,” and Ander handed him a ten and a receipt, folded up neatly into eighths. Waited for his change, grinning a little like a cat with its cream—any chance to touch him again.

“Thanks,” Omar said, making change and handing it back, holding onto it above Ander’s hand a little longer than necessary—glaring with deep aggravation into his beat-up face. _“What the fuck,”_ he breathed, barely a sound.

“Have a good one,” Ander called aloud, disappearing into the bright of day. Omar watched him go like he was leaving for war. The moment the door shut, Omar opened the receipt, had to read it three times to understand through the sun-glare in his eyes, the white fog of despair.

_If you can, sneak out tonight, come to my place._

And it was a trick, a god damn play on Omar’s blatantly weak hand. As if Omar wouldn’t risk getting caught and disowned by his family at the drop of Ander’s hat—Ander with his beautiful cheek marred by the harsh, bitter streets; Omar would go over there now.

He stuck the receipt in his pocket. The sun took forever to set, the days getting longer.

\- - - - -

It was nearly two A.M. when Omar snuck out his and Nadia’s window, bearing her scandalized look like penance, and biked to Ander’s place uptown. The streets were more foreign at night, Omar following instinct and landmarks he remembered over Calles with too-long names.

The lights were off in the house, everyone asleep, save for a low glow coming from the sunroom on its side. Omar had to slip through the creaky gate, walk closer to it before he made out a silhouette stood in the yard a few feet out. Omar’s heart picked back up, to his chagrin. What was he doing.

“Rebelde,” Ander teased, and Omar shushed him, insanely. Ander grinned wider, gestured to follow.

Omar trailed him at a distance, watching Ander saunter across the yard blind, turn the corner towards a small wooden shed stood by the fence and foliage. He ducked in, hitting a light—a beacon in the dark.

Omar entered the shack and waited for Ander to close the door before nudging him around to look at his face, angling it towards the light. The bruise on his cheek was a little swollen but the lip looked to be mending.

“Imbécil, I told you not to hang around there,” Omar tsked, dropping his hand. “You have a bounty on your head.”

Ander avoided his look, working his jaw like he was reliving it, “It was Samuel and Christian—Samuel knew I’ve been coming every day.”

Omar made to reopen the door, reaching through Ander, to go find his friend right now. He knew Samu was grieving, but he must've known how Omar felt. What Ander meant to him.

“No, no,” Ander laughed, grabbed Omar’s wrist before he could leave. “They told me to stay away from you, and I said something nasty,” Ander shook his head, full of regret. He looked Omar up and down, rubbed the side of his hand warmly, as if calming something wild. “I deserved it.”

Omar sighed, brushing off Ander’s hand testily but returning to his arms. He touched the scab on Ander’s lip, winced in sympathy. “Is this what we deserve?”

“Omar,” Ander huffed, rolling his eyes, vibrant and lighting up the dim room. “Omar, with your hard questions.”

Omar finally noticed and looked around the shed—it was well-built, a bit small. A sink and workstation with unused-looking tools hanging on the cream walls. There were decade-old tennis racquets hanging as well, with a few modern ones leaned up in the corner with raw strings. Some old toys: a small ride-able buggy, a disassembled plastic slide leaned up next to the rolled up hose—signs of an only child growing up.

Ander slid a hand across the shelves of collector mobile cars, raising dust, “I would’ve tidied up, but I wasn’t expecting anyone.” Omar snickered, eyeing the room for further hints into Ander’s life.

He finally landed back on Ander, basked in his indulgent look, “Worried I wouldn’t show up?”

Ander nodded, “Last time you were here,” his mouth curled up, remembering, licking his lip—and Omar’s eyes stuck there, “I didn’t know you’d show up then either. It seemed bad at home.”

“That letter,” Omar had kept it, in the old cigar box with his saved money. He’d memorized it. “‘ _Omar_ ’,” he began, and Ander ducked his head, thumbed the bridge of his nose, showing teeth.

Omar followed his gaze down, continuing, “‘ _Omar, I know I can’t ask this, but I miss you. I can’t do anything else. Come see me when you can.’_ ”

“A poet,” Ander joked, red at the edges. Omar shook his head before nudging into Ander’s mouth, biting his lower lip open.

Ander caught up quick, breath thinning. His tongue slipping through to drag against the roof of his mouth. Omar leaned back, leaned his forehead on Ander’s briefly to tell him, “I miss you too,” then another kiss, “I can’t do anything else.”

Ander gasped into his mouth, arm pulling around his neck, hand grasping at Omar’s waist, his back. He pushed Omar against the little wooden work table by the window, worked against him in waves, tongue like rapture. Omar fisted Ander’s soft, thready shirt, seared his hands onto his ribs like he wanted to burn through.

Ander pulled him in by his pockets, their hips meeting, pulling a groan from one or the two. They were both, deeply, all of the way there—and all they did was kiss.

“How long do you have,” Ander asked with some strain, palming Omar through his jeans and nipping at his ear, heavy like gravity.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter,” Omar gasped—all of his caution burnt to dust by Ander’s hand on him—and he could feel Ander’s smirk on his skin, felt it disappear as Omar stuck his hand down his sweats to grab his bare ass; he wasn’t wearing briefs, God strike him. “It doesn’t matt- mm”

Ander took a harsh pull of his mouth before lifting his shirt off of him in one motion, kissing down his neck to his clavicle to hang around there for a moment. It was an effort for Omar to watch him, breathing labored already—from weeks of just groping to have Ander like this, crowding him—it was all an effort.

Omar’s hand scrabbled at Ander’s shirt as he slid further down, made him lift his arms to pull it clear, just to have him magnetized back to Omar’s torso, kissing him just under his pecs. Omar made a noise, deeply aware of himself, damp and tacky from the bike ride—throwing the shirt somewhere over there, fingers pushing deep into Ander’s curls, rooting.

Ander didn’t seem to care, “I had dreams about this,” he said, undoing Omar’s belt deftly—and Omar keeled over, thumb rubbing meaninglessly at Ander’s temple, trying to remember the words, any word.

Ander mouthed him through his briefs and Omar definitely remembered one. Ander looked up at him, eyes shining and gleeful, watching him as he did it again. “Dios, Ander. Ah- you’re-“,

Ander didn’t get to hear what he was, as he peeled off Omar’s underwear, shucked his jeans and half-done belt down to swallow him whole, nose hitting Omar’s navel—and Omar could not speak, moaning through it.

Ander’s tongue— _that tongue_ —dragged heavy on the underside of his dick, sucking deep and airless, his hands holding him down by the leg, cradling the base. Omar held on to the desk behind him for dear life, neck craned back as he bit his lip. He kept with all his will from moving, hand shaking at the nape of Ander’s neck as he watched himself disappear over and over into Ander’s mouth.

Omar felt it coming, a numbness in his muscles as his nerves split at their ends, voice scraping as he tried to warn Ander, pushing on his cheek. Ander flicked his eyes up at him, mouth going slack at the vision—before delving back in, tighter, hands slipping with sweat and cum as he held Omar back. His bare arm flexing against Omar’s stomach, fingering his necklace, as he pulled him off in gradual off-beat.

Omar came quick and hard, bucking against the hold slightly into Ander’s mouth, making him flinch. Omar mumbled an apology on a moan, staring braindead at the devastating sight of Ander on his knees, legs shaking.

Ander pulled off, wiping his mouth a bit before surging up to kiss Omar, tinged with restraint. Omar grinned through it, content, fingers reaching for Ander’s pants.

Ander spun Omar round, took his hands and splayed them on the table, wide, teeth against the knob of his spine. He was hard and losing it, moving thoughtlessly against the cleft of Omar’s ass through his sweats. The noises he made were going to haunt Omar for as long as he lived.

They’d done things, but only ever fucked once, that other time at Ander’s house. It hadn’t been Omar’s first time with a guy, but it was Ander’s—and he’d been skittish, turned on as hell and clumsy with it, like their first kiss on the bridge.

Ander felt different now, weeks of just pining and petting devoiding him of self-doubt. It was obvious what he wanted, and he knew Omar did too.

“You have anything,” Omar asked over his shoulder, receiving a random kiss.

“No,” Ander sighed at his own idiocy, “I didn’t know we’d ever get to do this,” he said, laughing a little at their predicament—half-naked and wrapped up in each other like a Baroque sculpture.

Omar laughed too, extricated his hand from Ander’s to pull his hip in, steadying the rhythm. He pushed down the sweat pants to grab a better hold of his ass, Ander pressing back to accommodate.

“Wait,” Omar said, and Ander buried his face in his back, stopping with some effort. Omar could imagine the little frown of frustration and bit back a smirk. He licked his palm, readjusted under Ander’s weight to pull Ander’s dick down and between his bare legs, snug against his own, stiffening again. Ander released the breath he’d been holding, cursing.

Omar grabbed both of their cocks, slick with spent and spit and squeezed once, crowding the room with their voices. “Joder, joder,” Ander was muttering, low, hips snapping without input nor warning, the sound of skin against skin like a start, louder than anything. “What,” he gasped, sounding confused, grabbing Omar’s arm as it pulsed again.

Omar focused on his knees not buckling, pressing the heel of his hand on Ander’s cock against the place where Omar’s leg met hip, squeezing his thigh to feel the friction go through him like a shock. He had to blink at the feeling, too good. He dropped from his other hand, landing on his elbow, felt Ander buck in again, jostling them, the sound rumbling through his bones.

“Vale,” Omar breathed, squeezing again, eyes shuttering, “Okay.” And Ander let go, moaning, began to fuck in earnest into Omar’s hand. The table shook, hitting the wall in wooden thumps, the clutter vibrating and rolling to the edges, neither of them giving a shit. Omar was unbelievably hard again, Ander’s hand joining his as their hips struck over and over—sounds wet and vulgar. Ander’s thigh shook and rubbed against Omar’s leg, overwhelming.

Ander was saying nothing, near-silent, fused onto his back. The air was chill in the summer night but the room was thick with heat, the sounds, the walls expanding along with their lungs.

Omar went dumb with the feeling, Ander everywhere and inside, curled around him. It felt like a thousand years since they last touched, the dam breaking. The warmth and smell of Ander tattooed on his skin forever and ever.

Omar felt Ander stutter his rhythm, losing his footing slightly as he whined Omar’s name into his ear. Omar’s back sweat-slick and cooling as Ander snapped his hip faster, voice a low keen. Omar gasped at the speed, his hand stripping quicker on their dicks, trying to keep up. Too loud, uncaring, as he responded, “Ah, ahn, Ander-“

Ander’s hand came up to touch his jaw, thumb hooking on the hollow of his cheek—and Omar was gone on it, breathing high and full-voiced against Ander’s fingers, before his arm went limp from underneath -

Omar came like a punch, eyes blinking open and hip stuttering between Ander and their hands as he cried out after it.

“Omar, Omar,” Ander was saying when he came to, arm around his waist now as he pushed slowly, excruciatingly into the space between Omar’s leg and his softening dick, sensitive to touch. “You’re perfect,” he drawled, voice gone. Omar turned to meet his mouth, soft and over-used, watched as Ander’s sharp, bruised face changed from pleasure to urgency. He reached back to pull Ander’s hip closer, encouraging.

Ander began to move again, languid and spent, hand curled and pulling, shaking against Omar’s hip. Omar turned a bit more, licking into Ander’s slack mouth—swallowing his breath, fingers digging into his curls.

Soon Ander was coming, humming in bursts into Omar’s mouth, eyes scrunched shut. Omar held him through it, Ander stilling in stages, head dropping on his shoulder finally to kiss the skin there.

“Alright?” Omar asked on a hitch, reaching over for something to clean him up with, Ander nodding sleepily, smiling. Omar huffed a laugh, what a mess.

They sat against the pile of boxes in the corner after, pulled down the sheets covering it to lay against the floor. Ander’s head against his chest as he played with Omar’s rings, cradled by his legs—Ander asked him, “Do you still want to leave home?”

Omar thought long about the question, as he hadn’t considered it in weeks. It was strange, as it had once been the only thing that drove him.

Omar eyed the side of Ander’s face, flicking his fingers along Ander’s knuckles, arm pressed into his shoulder; he’d been pretty distracted, to be fair.

That place, as stifling as it was, with his father who loved and terrified him, his mother who he would never make happy—was also the place Ander braved every day to find him. It was the place Nadia came back to to complain about her day, to yell at him about his clutter. It didn’t feel like only his burden to bear, to solve the problem of his home.

“I don’t know,” Omar admitted, shrugging. Ander leaned back to peer up at him. “I think I want to wait and see.” He focused on the steady beat of his heart under Ander’s head, the stretch of summer that still remained ahead like a highway, “See if I could figure it out.”

“Good,” Ander said, kissing their linked hands, closing his eyes.

+++++

Samuel walked into the store next morning, beelining for Omar who had half a shoe tied propped up on the staircase. Samu looked sleepless, dark under his blood-shot eyes, made Omar pause his hands.

Before he could open his mouth, Samuel grabbed him, turning to Omar’s father at the desk, “Yusef, may I borrow Omar for a minute?”

“Of course, Samuel,” His father replied, softening with sympathy. He nodded to the door, “I’ll open up.” Samu thanked him, pulling Omar out by his elbow, his fingers like vice. Omar didn’t have the heart to struggle, kicking his foot into the remaining shoe.

“Do you love him?”

Samuel had dragged Omar into the alley by the laundromat two doors over, the air smelling crisp and soapy. It was a weird place to be talking about this—but what did Omar have to say about that, being closeted.

“I know you’re hurting, Samuel, but you didn’t have to hit him,” Omar lit up, dragging deep in frustration and a pleasant lack of sleep. He gestured in the school’s direction, mumbling through the cigarette, “Have you seen him? He’s like butter.”

“I didn’t. He called Christian _‘Carla’s rentboy’_ , and Christian went ballistic,” Samuel lost a little of his bite, looking down at his feet briefly. “I didn’t stop him.”

Omar threw up his hands, tired of it, truly; these fucking children. “He quit tennis to visit me for ten minutes a day,” Omar exasperated. “What am I gonna do, turn him away?”

Samuel shook his head, eyes intent, shuttered with hurt—His expression hung foreign on his face, like it was changed by someone else’s hands when Omar wasn’t looking.

“Omar, this is how they play us. They act like they care, like they’ll save us from the slums, but all they do is patronize and betray.” He grabbed Omar’s wrist, holding his smoke hostage, “It’s a game with rules that only serve them, at the expense of people like us.”

 _People like us._ Even the idea, the barest possibility of Ander thinking this way felt like fresh heartbreak. It had nearly killed him last night, biking home at four in the morning with his heart in his lungs—tearing away from Ander, leaving him in that shed wrapped in a sheet and nothing else.

He tried to bring it to mind: Ander’s kiss, the feel of his tattoos on the tips of his fingers, what Ander whispered in his ear before calling his name again for the thousandth time—it blurred and waned in the harsh light of day, muted by Samuel’s haunted look.

Omar gritted through it, yanking his cuff from Samuel’s hand, “Ander is different.”

“What, just because he isn’t old money?” Samuel scowled, like that’s worse. “I’ve been to that school, Omar. They’re packed like wolves, they’ll lie and cheat to protect each other.”

Omar narrowed his eyes—as if that wasn’t the same this side of the tracks—aiming for annoyed but shooting wide into pissed off, “Yeah, you’ve told me every day you go to Las Encinas—what I’m telling you is I know Ander. He-“ Omar lost steam, looking away- “He may have done those things. But he wouldn’t-”

“Do it to you? They made bets on your sister, Omar. Come on,” Samuel scoffed, mouth twisted and mean. He looked pitying, like trust sold for cheaper than dirt and Omar got played like a day-old chump. “You can't be serious.”

And Omar could not quite stand that, like Omar didn’t _know_ , like he wasn’t hanging by a thread—punching off of the wall and pushing in inches from Samuel’s face,

“You don’t think I’ve agonized over this? Admitting to myself that I liked men, that I loved Ander—an athlete from the most prestigious school in the city, who can have anyone he wants,” his voice broke at that, embarrassing, “- that if people found out I would be damned where I stood, a smear on Ander’s life, his career.”

The tide returned full force, all of his fears and anxieties over the past months finally hitting air, taking shape. He watched Samuel retreat from its size, Omar shaking now, voicing it making it real, hostile.

“Let alone a shame on my family, an outcast.” The weight of that reality crushed him; that he would be estranged from his father. Would no longer be his son, just another lost stray on the streets.

Omar’s voice hitched, breaths coming too quick. He was unable to do anything about any of it, and it would be the end of him, “But I can’t- I can’t stop because it’s my only happiness,” he confessed, and that was the great comedy- “It is the only thing keeping me from losing it.”

Ash fell from his abandoned smoke, as he shrugged, empty. He knew it was stupid, and nothing good would come, but when had that ever stopped him.

Samuel took a step, reached out a hand, voice wavering, “I’m just worried about you. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

And Omar knew. No one ever sought out to get hurt, but it happened anyway.

“Did you love her?” Omar asked him. “Was she worth it?”

Samuel ducked his head, breathing heavy, enduring it. He slumped like a tree back against the wall, hand fisting in his hair. She had been, it was always clear on Samu’s face.

Omar felt for his friend—this kind, generous kid too soft for the world. Grieving for his first love, and for his brother, who will be incarcerated for life. Worse than death.

Omar sighed, went over, tugged Samuel in to curl his arm around his shoulder—felt it flinch a little before relaxing, melting against him as exhaustion poured out.

“You’re all I have. Please take care,” Samuel sniffed, and Omar kissed the side of his head, pulled him in for a hug. He could feel Samuel grabbing at the sides of his sweater, stretching it out, as his shoulders shook in silence.

And maybe Ander would break his heart one day. Realize—wisely, Omar would have to admit—that he deserved something better than a secret affair with a boy whose carriage turned back into a pumpkin within ten minutes. At some point the distance and the waiting will wear them down and Ander will find someone new—after all, Omar was only his first guy. It would be crazy for him to settle for that, Omar could never blame him.

Ander would find someone who didn’t balk at every outing, avoid his touches in public. Someone he could show off in broad daylight and who would sit with him and his friends and laugh at their jokes. Omar tried for a moment to imagine Ander with someone else, someone easier to be with—he could hardly bear it.

Omar watched Samuel steadily calm, lose his hiccups—watched him in fascination like a flower cracking through concrete to get at the sun.He pretended to lick his thumb and wipe at the tear marks on his face, Samuel elbowing him away, laughing, “gross, fucker.” A klaxon blared out two streets over, and a dog barked after it. The peace was brief but gracious, and Omar revelled.

“Let me borrow your phone,” Omar told Samuel, dropping his blunt like a dart into the ground.

Samu wiped his nose on his sleeve, cleared his throat, “Don’t sext him using my minutes, por favor.”

No one got what they deserved in this life, and Omar certainly didn’t deserve anything he had. Ander was a dream, one he was afforded for a time for being a selfish idiot. One day the universe will right itself, and until then Omar will take what he can get—take shameless, greedy dregs of this last bit of air before it’s cut off.

_its Omar. i miss you._

And if Omar believed nothing else in the world, he believed that this timeless feeling would be worth its end.

_I miss you too. See you soon_

 

* * *

 


End file.
